POETRY BULLSHIT
That is all this page will feature: bullshit. I don't like the poems I write, but unfortunately the habit comes with the hobby of being a writer. The shortform artsy-fartsy drivel simply pours out of my major orifices, so I'd might as well log it while the tap's going!
Reposting or using as inspo is more than okay, credit is always appreciated!
A Cardboard Box in a Visibly Considerable Amount of Disrepair
Dedicated to where I work, colloquially 'The Cage'Fragile mood like a box that won't let you know
it's about to split until you pick it up, transforming into a bomb
into sand through your fingertips. There's shrapnel everywhere.
Shrapnel holds me together, tape glue and staple. Shrapnel tears me apart
bursting from the seams of me like an animal, freed.
The niceties he affords me do good to hold me up but it's easier to break than to build,
easier to hurt than to break, easier to die than to hurt. But the hardest? To live without.
There's no coming back from this. Tape sticks glue clumps staples pierce,
a masterpiece of additional aiding ugliness with only one destination.
The end.
Start of The End
A poem about what I write aboutOne of my favourite things to write
is suicide notes.
I try to fit as much of my self
as I possibly can into
a page or two,
try to summarise my life for an
anonymous overseeing authority.
The mortician, the policeman. My mother.
My hope is that I'll write enough
that I forget to kill myself
and eventually, I'll have a working memoir
soaked in grief
for the person I am and continue to be;
so that instead of dying
I am allowed to be reborn.
The Night-Shifters Dilemma.
A poem about my job, written on a piece of cardboard used to hide a nap.To prioritise an 8-hour
long, gruelling grind or to care
against our workhorse bodies.
Hidden in plain sight.
Relief squirrelled into the gaps in our CV's,
away from the hidden CCTV cameras,
even supervision gets forty minutes.
This is not an office.
We call it the cage.
We work (& sleep) like dogs.
I'm Not Catholic
Something about being transgender.Worship is only fun when you don't have to do it,
but if I don't tend to this catholic
girls school of a body;
who will?
"It's worse on the inside,"
I promise you.
My fingers aren't crossed they're interlaced, still
asking God for a reassignment.
Disconnection
A poem about something that shouldn't be alive.Being alive is such a lonely experience. Beep.
No wonder you are the way you are. You've never
known another way to be.
Self-maintained abandonware. Beep.
Solitary in the restricted parameters of your own mind.
Beep.
I see you and you see me, but do you really?
Am I really this mess of blood and carbon? Beep.
I'm not sure (of) myself.
Sacrifice
A poem about being chosen.Not sacrificial the way a lamb is,
wet with blood and soft.
He'll cut me all the same, but
God doesn't talk to me
that way.
The frog on your biology class desk, wet and
bloated and grotesque.
The girls scream,
I'm frightening.
But I bleed the same way a lamb will.